


Picture Perfect

by BitchtearsandButtsecks (HandbagMurder)



Series: Homestuck [18]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Best Friends, Dumb Kawaii Boyfriends, Fluffiness, Internet friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandbagMurder/pseuds/BitchtearsandButtsecks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which dave is unspeakably lame in every conceivable way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Perfect

\----EB is now online---

\----EB began pestering TG at 20.17----

 

EB: omg

EB: are you ever not online?

TG: you are kidding right? the question you should be asking is ‘am I ever offline’

TG: the answer is no

TG: in case you couldn’t tell

EB: lame

TG: not lame

TG: not even a little bit lame.

TG: if you could choose between ‘average teenage boy in texas’ and ‘god of the internet’ which would you choose?

TG: trick question

TG: it’s the second one

EB: you are not god of the internet

TG: tell that to all my sbhj fans john. And the ninety followers i have on my photography blog.

TG: I mean im not one to honk my own horn or anything Egbert

TG: but the horn needs honking

TG: things are getting pretty intense. Im getting popular. I can feel your envy from my current position and it is rank.

TG: tone it down a bit

TG: geeze.

EB: …

EB: you seriously have ninety followers on that stupid blog?

TG: it isn’t a stupid blog

TG: its my lifes work

TG: my pride and joy

TG: my magnum opus.

TG: and no I actually have eighty nine.

TG: close enough.

EB: no.

EB: oh my god Dave its just a whole lot of photos of black and white lawn chairs.

TG: im thinking about expanding my horizons maybe diversifying a little.

TG: what do you think about a series of black and white umbrellas?

TG: a good filter and those things could be hella sober. Real deep shit.

TG: oh whats that? You are looking for a metaphor with which to describe the emptiness of your existence?

TG: Your girlfriend left you?

TG: life is hard and no one understands?

TG: allow me to direct you to this snapshot of a crying child holding a parasol.

TG: nothing says ‘life is meaningless’ like a crying child

TG: with a parasol

EB: Dave that’s messed up. no one would want to see that.

TG: don’t diss the niss John

TG: life is art

TG: you wouldn’t understand

EB: i don’t think I want to?

EB: but, i guess…

EB: if you want more people to see your photos and get more followers (because eighty nine is like… dumb, don’t even pretend its not)

EB: maybe you should make a fanpage on facebook

EB: more people will see it then

TG: … yeah?

TG: I could

TG: but I didn’t realise that facebook was still a thing people used unironicaly

EB: woah rude

TG: coming from the regent rude 2013

TG: that is laughable

TG: seriously though facebook ew. Gross

TG: im offended you would even suggest that

TG: no way

EB: so what, you don’t have a facbook account?

TG: Egbert we have been bros for like seven months dontcha think that if I had a facebook I would have given it to you already?

TG: geeze, sort your shit

TG: anyway, I have to go

TG: because you took so long getting online and now my bro wants me to come to dinner

TG: dorrito pizza nite

TG: yay

TG: be back in about half an hour

 

\----TG is now idle----

 

EB: hey its not my fault I have a life Dave

EB: unlike you I have things to do besides wait for my best bud to log on each evening

EB: :p

EB: anyway, bye!

 

 

You sit at your desk for about two minutes watching John’s last couple of messages go through because you can smell your brothers specialty wafting from the kitchen and honestly it is starting to make you kind of queasy already. You wonder if you could get away with just lifting a couple of apples from the fruit bowl and returning to your room for a bit, but somehow you doubt it. Never mind that you have assignments due and stuff, that you completely put aside in favour of updating your photography blog and waiting for John to get online.

You don’t even know why you do that; sitting around for hours even though you know he wont be on till seven or later. You really are just desperate, you suppose. It means a lot to you, these evenings you can snatch conversations with him. You were never good at making friends, especially in school or a team environment, so if it wasn’t for ‘that guy you met on omegle text chat’ you would probably be one of those friendless juniors everyone pointed at in the halls. You kind of are, to the outside world, but in the sanctity of your room you have John and even if he turns out to be a 45 year old pedo or some nasty 13 year old you really don’t know what you would do without that.

“Dave hurry up or the Doritos are gunna get soggy.”

Oh. Joy.

 _Soggy_ dorito pizza. Even better.

You sigh heavily and stand, cracking the bones in your neck and shoulders and feeling small pops of relief as you do so. Your shades are sitting on the desk beside your mac, you don them before departing your room and pulling the door too behind you.

Your mind is already half an hour in the future, when you can sit down in front of the computer and waste away the hours again on topics of little consequence.

You know that it’s a flimsy, meaningless relationship in a real life context, and yet somehow it gives you reason to get up in the morning. Reason to eat the shitty food your brother presents you with in lieu of meals each day.

Even, you ponder as you draw a seat at the kitchen table and pluck one of the nacho cheese dorito shards off the top of your pizza, a reason to get a facebook account?

You had honestly never considered the idea before.

It’s not like you needed one. You didn’t have people in real life you would want to have on it, and your blogs were way better for sharing your art and music with a global (89 people and counting) audience. Having a facebook account to connect with John though… well that would be different because as it is your interactions are strictly scheduled. But with facebook you could probably sit in class and message him. Write him posts and read daily updates from his life… you only really know the basics about the site, and honestly it seems kind of boring, but also it seems sort of liberating. A client that works on your time rather than freezing up until both your calendars coincided.

You don’t realise you are pushing your pizza around the plate in thought until your bro asks you what is wrong. You tell him nothing and choke down a mouthful of his food. That should shut him up for a bit.

Yes, you think as you reach for the glass of water he poured you to wash down your dinner. Maybe facebook _would_ be convenient. And you could say that you have it ironically, for ironic purposes, because frankly mainstream media repulses you. But then you hesitate in your thoughts, your stomach swooping not quite unpleasantly but enough to make you falter.

If you were to make an account, hypothetically, and add John, then suddenly him and you wouldn’t just be faceless strangers any more.

Suddenly you would be able to see the way he interacts with others. See his real life friends post on his wall, see his updates, what he does each day he doesn’t mention to you, his school jokes and cliques and other things you aren’t sure you ever realised John has before. This is unnerving, it’s the first time you have ever thought of John as a person with a life outside of you before (though he has often spoken about it in passing). This unfamiliar, sonderous feeling only increases when you realise that if you make a facbook account and can gain access to all of Johns photos, updates, and other details, then you would be able to see Johns _face_.

That’s right.

John has a face.

This thought makes your stomach flip flop right out, and you set down your pizza, squirming in your chair enough for your brother to turn to you and ask again ‘seriously Dave, what’s wrong?’

“Nothing,” you tell him quickly. “I’m just feeling kinda sick.”

“So why are you here kid go to bed.”

“You don’t mind if I don’t finish dinner?”

Bro rolls his eyes behind his shades (you can’t see it but you _know_ he does) and reaches for your plate. The porcelain scoots across the battered table top and he waves you away with his hand.

“Panadols in the cupboard. Do you reckon you need a day off school tomorrow?”

“Yes.” You jump on the opportunity. You _hate_ school and any reason to avoid it even if unintentionally earned is desirable to you.

“Okay, I will ring them and not wake you in the morning. Sweet dreams little bro.”

“Yeah… you too.”

You bro fist him on your way back to your room, jelly legging the way because you are still startled by the epiphany that John actually has a face. He has eyes. A nose. Lips like you.

For so long you had just thought of him as a voice. A mind. Bodyless and formless. It strikes you as ridiculous that you, a boy so strung up on the visual, completely overlooked this thought.

How had it not occurred to you?

How?

You suppose it had been easier, to spill your guts and thoughts and soul to a blank face on the other side of the screen. Even if it was veiled in a thin ironic gauze, it was still more than you had ever shared with anyone before. John was the first person who had ever really seemed interested in you, and even though he said he didn’t care for your comics, or your photos, or anything much you did, he still checked your blog daily, and he still asked you about what you were up to. What you enjoyed. He _cared_ about you. You hoped. And like some sort of angel or spirit you had never really expected him to have a face. To have a life. to have a circle of friends and things he never told you and an entire life and world beyond your own.

Had you really been so selfish? Had this relationship really been so onesided? You wonder if he had ever thought about what you look like. Maybe he has. After all, you always talk about yourself so much it would be hard for him to not be able to envision your life, to see you as a person and probably get annoyed each time he logged on and realised you were waiting. God you are annoying. And pathetic. No matter how many times you say you are cool, you probably never will be and that’s unfortunate.

You groan and throw yourself on your bed, discarding your shades because they just get in the way when you are trying to bury your face in shame.

John is a guy who has a life. John is a guy with a face and a family and he probably thinks of you as little more than evening entertainment. For some reason this makes you feel really…

Lame.

You play back every conversation you have ever had with him in your head, and only now do you realise how _desperate_ you must have sounded. Photography this, raps that… hundreds of messages you never sent all backed up in your outbox and frankly you are at half mind to delete them because holy crap. You have never thought of anything so embarrassing in your life. 

You think, now that it is on your mind and you can’t escape it, that if you had to think of a face for John it would be one of those perfectly generic faces, like all the boys on the football team at school. You think he would be tall, perfect plain features, light brown hair and maybe a cute smile to boot. How boring. How annoyingly attractive and just bothersome generally. Ughhhhh you are a disgrace and an embarrassment. Someone put you out of your misery…

And oh great, now the curiosity is digging at you, wiggling under your skin like maggots on that dirty fucking baloney your brother left in the fridge for five weeks. You know you won’t be able to sleep, if you don’t find out. If you don’t find out _now_. You have always been a fucking impatient little shit.

A thousand ‘what if’s clatter through your head as you drag yourself off your bed and kick closed your door to prevent any brother related interruptions during this somewhat shameful embarrassing thing you are about to do.

You deposit yourself in your computer chair and wiggle your finger on the trackpad to wake it up. Your fingers type your password (‘PlushRumpz96’, your brother set it for you and you didn’t know how to change it back) almost without meaning to and rather than log back onto pesterchum you minimise the window and bring up your browser. You type ‘facebook’ into the searchbar and click the link that it conjures.

Setting up an account is surprisingly painless, and you skip all of the ‘find friends’ and account setting bullshit at the start because you are only here for one reason and one reason only; you don’t have time for any of that foolishness.

It takes you a little longer and a few deep breaths for you to type ‘John Eg-‘ into the facebook search, before you stop, backspace, and push your chair away from the computer. Frustrated, conflicted, you rake your hands through your hair.

Do you want to do this? Really?

Is there any way he would be able to tell you had been perving on his profile? Like a checker or counter or something? Was this creepy? You think this is pretty creepy.

And then you remember your brother likes puppet porn, and suddenly you don’t feel so creepy anymore.

You take a deep breath and approach the computer again.

_John Egbert._

There are forty two hits.

None of the people in the pictures you are faced with look like what you imagined.

You scroll down the list with a lump in your throat and an unfamiliar tension in your gut. You don’t know why you are so nervous. You shouldn’t be. It is not like you are doing anything filthy or debaucherous or anything, you are simply facebook stalking a friend of yours for curiosity sake and nothing more. Really. So why do you feel like you are going to be sick? It must have something to do with the godawful dinner your brother tried to feed you.

Yeah, that must be it.

You stop thinking about it and try to focus instead on the pictures. Your heart does an excited little tickle when you think you see a likely candidate, and you squirm in your chair in revulsion when you see an old man with a moustache looking at you from one of the small little square images on the screen. Surely, _surely,_ that is not him.

You check his state and breathe a sigh of relief when you realise that he is from Toronto. _Your_ John is from Seattle. You know this because he mentioned it casually, when you were first making acquaintances on omegle.

Seattle… Seattle…

You ctrl+F and type in the word, and it identifies only one result.

John Egbert, sixteen years old, Seattle. The picture is hard to make out; unlike the others it is not of a face, but of a cake, and frankly you fond that almost hysterical. What if John actually _was_ a cake, and for all this time you had been investing all your thoughts feelings and serious thoughts into little more than a glorified pastry. That would probably not have been unlikely, considering your luck.

You click on the name with shaking hands, and it takes you to a completely public profile. The image he has as his banner almost slaps you in the face with shock. It’s a boy, about the size of a twelve year old but with features and muscle structure of someone older and more pubescent, sitting heroically astride some kind of pogo ride on a snowy day in during the winter. He’s waving a hammer.

A _hammer_.

You hope almost instantly that this is ironic.

You don’t know who took the picture, but whoever it is cast a shadow on the ground, and they look to be swaddled in wool and scarves while he wears only a fluffy beanie and mittens with his blue plaid shirt and jeans. He’s wearing glasses, which you never in the _world_ would have imagined, and his eyes are a vivid almost chemical shade of sapphire. His front teeth are too big, and at odds with his jet black hair sticking out under the beanie. He has freckles.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

You have no further evidence to back it up, but even though it didn’t match what you had imagined, and even though he closely resembles an over excitable child, you know in you deepest heart of hearts that this is him. Really. This is John. _Your_ John. And you swallow down your pulse and try to organize the butterflies winging around the base of your stomach.

This knowledge is confirmed when you click on his cover album gallery and read the comments on his front page image. From what you can establish it was one of those ‘me and my friends got a little tipsy on new years’ pictures, and the way he talks about it in that assholish yet somehow sweet way is so stereotypically John that you don’t know how you can bear it anymore.

You shut down facebook and your computer without even messaging him on pesterchum to say goodbye and worm your way into bed. Your light switch is still on, so you throw an item grabbed of your sidetable (a magazine) at the switch to shut it off. Never mind that you are still wearing jeans. You can just wake up at three am and wiggle those off if you have to.

And incapable of processing any of what has just happened, what you now know, and how you now feel, you cuddle your duvet to you fiercely and kick your legs around in frustrated delight. Euphoria is setting in, and you have never felt so ridiculously fanboyish in all your life.

You feel stupid. Not cool at all.

No one may ever know about this moment.

Not even your brothers stupid puppets.

 

…

 

You don’t go online for a couple of days after that, you are too scared that he might be able to tell your secret over the internet even though that’s completely impossible and you are being irrational. However, thoughts of his face do not leave your mind, and once or twice you find yourself logging back on to look at his photos again. Not all of them are inebriated; some of them are really cute. John in a school uniform, John playing a piano in some kind of show, John shaking hands with the guy who played the nerdy dude in ghostbusters… well you think it’s that film, you can’t be sure. Family photos, school photos (oh god, those must be his friends… in some ways you are envious of John, that he has so many, and in other ways you want to tear off that black haired girls head and spit down her neck. Is she his girlfriend?), holiday photos… according to these, John and his dad had been most places. Disneyland, London, New York, Sydney, Berlin… you have never been on a holiday in your life. Your bro needs to be home all the time to monitor his puppets and his pornsite, and for the first time in your life you actually feel bitter about this.

He looks the same in nearly every image. Handsome, bright, eyes standing out like a ‘croc at a gator farm’ to use a metaphor inspired by the current image you are seeing; a picture of John holding a koala at Australia zoo. Lucky bastard… koalas always looked so cuddy. Even though it says in the comments that this one had peed on him.

It is a rainy Saturday afternoon, and you are sitting curled up in the corner of the futon with a litre carton of apple juice and your brand new iPad that you were all very proud of and had yet to remove the plastic screen protector from that you found the courage to log back on again search him on your contacts list.

He gets to you first though, a dialogue popping up almost as though he had been waiting for you sign on so he could accost you somewhat unfairly.

 

EB: there you are!

EB: where have you even been Dave gosh

EB: your blogs are still updating but youve been ghost mode for three days

EB: whats up?

TG: nothing. real life stuff i guess.

TG: my bro got me an ipad yesterday though. you should see this thing its so sweet

TG: touch screen and photoshop

EB: ok i dont care?

EB: i just wanna know why you haven’t been online

TG: i told you

TG: i’ve been busy.

EB: …

EB: doing what?

TG: what are you my wife?

TG: jesus cant you ever put the seat down? why don’t you turn your pants in the right way before you put them in the wash? how come your hoodie smells like cheep perfume?

TG: WHO IS SHE?!

TG: etcetera

EB: dont make fun of me

EB: i missed you

TG: dont blame you. im pretty fucking fantastic.

TG: but anyway

TG: whatcha been doing? i made a facebook the other day…

EB: did you?! awesome! can i add you?

TG: sure. dont expect too much though.

TG: im still working out how to use it

 

You had been working yourself up to this almost constantly, imagining how to say it, how to come off careless and casual when actually you were pissing yourself insecure. You think you did quite well? But the interaction was only part way done. You hate the way, when you are actually engaged in conversation with him, the things you wanted to say but never did rattle around your brain until they are sucked away into the black hole of forgetfulness, hours or rehearsed speech wasted away. You hate how you always forget the witty things. That ‘wife’ play was terribly weak, you should have teased him about it instead, playful and ego boosting, but when you are nervous you find you never can.

Oh well. Too late now. You had worked through scenarios in your head, listened to what felt like every single possible response on his part in your mind on repeat and rehearsed carefully exactly what you wanted to say, and although the buildup and been a little shaky and direct you had gotten there. That was the way you spat it out, and now you have to handle the ‘what happens next’.

‘What happens next’ promises to be a lot more nerve racking.

You log onto your shiny new facebook account, assuming that somewhere out there John is doing the same, and take a deep breath to compose yourself at least a little bit. You are relieved that he cannot see you over the internet, you don’t need to worry about body language of voice tone, you only have to make sure that your words are exactly right. The right degree of careless, the right degree of casual, calm and cool. You are already last minute reciting what you have to say when he adds you, and at the back of your mind (even though you know it’s him) the worrying question lingers.

_What if it is not the boy I think? What if John isn’t that black haired kid with the dorky smile? What if he’s a stranger, if I don’t like him? What if, what if, what if?_

You actually exhale in relief when it is the familiar cake icon that adds you, your first red notification on your taskbar, and you click accept with a heartbeat that you can hear echoing between your ears. 

 

TG: so are you actually a cake or…

EB: dont be dumb Dave that’s just my icon

TG: yeah ok I was gunna say

TG: you look good. very moist.

TG: spongey

EB: gross. Just gross.

TG: ok seriously though. this is you?

EB: which one?

TG: the guy with the hammer and the dorky beanie

EB: oh yeah

EB: that’s me

EB: wbu? are you actually a blue silhouette or…

TG: shut up

TG: I haven’t uploaded a picture yet.

 

And there was the kick.

You chew your lip, fingers tapping against the screen of your iPad idly in thought, because you had debated long and hard about whether or not you should upload a picture before adding him, and decided eventually against. It was too much stress, worrying about making your hair look good, your shades sit right… you cared about what John thought, was all. You wanted to look good to him because, well, as you sit there trying to fish a response out of the ocean of practices you can imagine him sitting at the other end too, looking sweet faced with his bottom lip under his two front teeth, his small body dressed in cute boy-next-door clothing, and goddamnit he looks nice. You _like_ how he looks, and you want him to like how you look too.

You are shallow and vain, although you really can’t afford to be considering your social status in school.

Honestly, you had been hoping he wouldn’t ask, but there it is the big question, and you can hardly be condemned for groaning a little when he responds exactly how you had anticipated.

 

EB: well can you?

EB: youve seen my face i want to see yours

 

You exhale deeply and squirm in your seat, trying to dislodge the rock that had fallen into your gut.

 

TG: ok fine

TG: ill do it in the next 24 hours

TG: dont be getting your knickers in a knot till then Egbert

TG: it takes a while to get this face picture perfect.

EB: oh whatever. just post something you have taken already!

TG: no

TG: patience is a virtue Egbert

TG: gotta go bros home

TG: talk to you later

 

You sign out, and you feel like you have just been on a roller coaster, adrenaline soaring through your veins. Your bro actually is not home, you think he went to the children’s rock climbing gym down the road again (he’s been doing that a lot lately, you think he has a crush on one of the instructors), and he hasn’t even left you a note saying when he will be back. What a creep. One day the mothers who take their kids to that place are going to notice that he keeps coming back and sitting there watching, and frankly you are not prepared for the day the cops show up at your house with a piece of paper that says ‘paedophile’, even if it is a case of mistaken intent. Having the law find out that you are the child of a single thirty year old puppet pimp and porn god is not on your list of things to do, and you think to yourself quite firmly that if that happens you will make your way to Washington and live with John instead. You had seen his face now, and the two of you talked online for sometimes four or five hours a time. Things are getting pretty serious.

You turn off your ipad and set it on the coffee table before standing and glancing down at your clothes in an attempt to decide if the outfit you had on was satisfactory. Skinny jeans and a red sweater. Not bad. Could be improved. And you need to brush out your bedhead.

You sigh and make your way tiredly to your bedroom and the flurry of discarded clothes all over the floor. Maybe, amongst rumpled cloth and smelly jeans, you will find something appealing there.

 

…

 

Ok. So you have your best jeans on and a red plaid shirt that subtly resembles the one he’s wearing in his banner picture, but not so subtly that it looks like it was intentional. Your hair is brushed, and for aesthetic purposes you select your old school SLR camera to take the shot. It will only take you a while to develop the photos and scan them into the computer. You squeeze into your too small bathroom, check each nook and cranny of the space for puppets, and then lock the door. You don’t want your bro arriving back without your knowledge and walking in only to catch you in shame like this. You would rather have him think you were masturbating.

You check your light meter in the white glow of overhead florescent bulbs, gleaming tiles reflecting brightness and sucking your aperture settings right down to 2. Actually, now you think about it, you have never done a mirror shot with a film camera before. You aren’t sure how well you are going to be able to get it to work.

You swear to yourself. One film. Only one film. However discontent with the developed images you may be, you are only doing one film.

You end up doing three.

You finally get an acceptable image; a black and white one on high speed film because your first roll of film had been so badly bleached by the brightness in the room you actually had trouble getting even a grey ghost on the negatives. You end up changing your shirt too, to a v-necked tee you liked, and restyling your hair so it looked a little less prep school a little more ‘average boy’. You are still not happy with the results; you are to skinny and too tall. Your body looks like little more than bones and you fear this is how it’s always going to be. Your freckles are obvious on your cheeks, even though you tried three times to under expose that area of your face in the darkroom process. The closest thing to results you had seen was a image you titled ‘the not-so-mysterious-case-of-daves-missing-nose’ and you were going to put it onto your photography blog but then you remembered that John checks that blog, and you simply tossed it into your bin without even fixing it. Your shades look really black, because you couldn’t seem to get the contrast right, and you are in a hurry so you don’t have time to fuck with exposure times now. You will just have to fix it up in elements.

You finally hang your finished image to dry on your line and check your watch. It’s almost 8pm, and bro still isn’t back. Maybe tonight he has finally landed a date with the booty shorts climbing instructor.

“Hey little bro where are you?”

Or perhaps not.

You edge out of the room and are relived to see he has arrived home with pizza, not grandiose ideas about home cooked meals and soup made from whatever mysterious thing he could find at the back of the fridge. You hope he brought meat lovers.

“No luck with the rock climbing then?”

“Not tonight. Hurry up and get some pizza, it’s cold. Want garlic bread?”

And even though you are nervous as hell, and you aren’t sure you are ready to show John your face come morning, you manage to down five slices of pizza and a half loaf of garlic bread before showering and dropping into bed.

 

…

 

You fiddle with the photo for ages, as soon as you wake up until about lunch time, and then you realise you have about an hour before the time you promised a photo would be up and are sent spiralling into panicked despair. You delete all your edits, and start from scratch again. A plain black and white photo of you snapping a selfie with a camera that actually, now you are looking at it, looks unwieldy and dumb. Also, you look much to preened and tense, like you are about to go to some unknown great aunts funeral, and your face looks stressed and to top it all off it’s despairingly obvious what was on your mind at the time you took it.

You are just about to collapse face down on your desk when your brother comes to the rescue, poking his head into your room and asking if you want to come with him to the store.

“Might go to the rock climbing place afterward. Want to tag along? I’ll probably get to stay longer if I take a kid.”

You groan, thinking that the idea of weedy useless athletically incompetent you standing around at a rock climbing gym would have been ironically hilarious, if it wasn’t _you_.

“Are you going to enrol me in rock climbing classes?”

“I never thought of that…” he muses, and you realise with a swoop that you have _really_ done it now. “That’s a good idea. Come on then, I have an ass to claim.”

And even though the notion of rock climbing makes you feel queasy, you don’t even protest a little bit because now you have an excuse not to post your picture.

 

…

 

Oh mother of _god_ that was probably one of the most humiliating things you had ever done, and over all your bro would have been better to enrol in the fucking classes himself because at least _you_ got to feel the instructors hands all over your ass as he tied you into the harness and set you up that dumbass plastic wall. You kind of feel guilty, stealing your big bro’s thunder like that because he’s had the hots for that instructor guy (Jake… his name was Jake) for absolute months and he got approximately no attention whatsoever for his efforts in bringing you, but mostly you don’t because that had just sucked on so many levels and your legs were so sore you worried they might fall off if you don’t get off them half an hour ago or more.

Naturally the first thing you do when you get back is sit on your computer and log online.

The facebook window is open.

You have a new message notification.

 

JOHN EGBERT :

Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaave you said you would upload a picture but I cant see one! Not cool dude, why aren’t you online?

 

Come on Dave.

 

Dave I want to see your face!

 

Oh wait, I get it now. You don’t have a face you are just some bodiless voice from my imagination. Haha, joking. But seriously come onnnnn…

 

Dave. Dave. Dave. Dave. Dave…

 

Ugh you are so annoying. Hurry up and get one sorted already!

 

It says he sent about twenty of these messages, over ten minute increments, and looking at them now you cant help but writhe in guilt because you did promise him… and you don’t have any picture, and you are exhausted even though its only 5 pm, and you just feel shitty and panicky and in your distress you simply elect to ignore it all and go to bed.

 

…

 

You sleep until late the next morning; even though it’s a Monday your bro didn’t bother to wake you and for this you are really, really glad. You ooze out of bed and stretch lazily, going for a shower and grabbing something to eat before settling down for a bit to watch some shitty afternoon TV, and it is only then that you think of John and wonder what he might be up to right about now. Probably at school… you will talk to him later this afternoon.

And then holy shit, it hits you.

You remember what had been happening the night before, and that photo you were _supposed_ to have posted, and you leap out of the sofa and hurtle to your room to retrieve your iPad with your heart beating somewhere around your tonsils.

Oh mother of god he is going to be so annoyed at you.

Your head spinning and your chest tight with panic you check your facebook page, and what feels like a wrecking ball swings against your lower stomach when one of those little red bubbles pops up above your messages notifications. Oh Jesus, you are already mouthing apologies.

 

JOHN EGBERT

Dave its like eleven thirty and you still haven’t put a photo what the fuck man. Can you just be on pesterchum at 5pm your time tomorrow? I wanna see youuuuuuuuuuuuuu!

 

You swallow and shake your head just a little bit, feeling your heart wither away inside your chest. In this moment, you are convinced, you are absolutely _convinced,_ that you never want to show him your face. No way. Not your fucked up stupid face. You wonder if there is any way in hell you could pass off a picture of your brother as yourself, but then you realise he would know by the size; your brother is a broad shouldered clearly mature adult man. You are the approximate size of a weenie. And not even an ironic weenie you actually are just a twerp and these thoughts _really_ are not making you feel any better.

You groan sorely and turn off your iPad, collapsing face down on your bed and wishing you could just stop feeling all embarrassed and wriggly, and stop feeling shame when faced with your online friends dumb handsome face. You have no idea how John might envision you, but you are prepared to _bet_ it isn’t as a weedy blonde with lips like a girls and shades. No way. He probably imagines you all rough and stubble, big shouldered and tanned with a skux smile and how can you compete with that? Your self confidence is as weak as your cool-guy veneer and now John is probably aware of this. You can’t even begin to _think_ about uploading a picture now, because nothing you could imagine short of photoshopping the living shit out of your face feels like it will do. Maybe you would just be better off giving up and going back to taking photos of lawn chairs…

The fact of the matter is that you want to make an accurate first impression… you don’t want John seeing the wrong side of you, you don’t want him to make assumptions about your life based on how many pimples you have instead of your feelings, you don’t want him to decide how you should behave according to the way your hair sits or your mouth looks instead of your dreams and the passions in your head. You don’t want him to see you, and have a face on a label on a box to put your personality in. just another box to categorize.

And you know he will because he’s fucking gorgeous. Damn him. Every time you look in a mirror now you are going to think ‘wow, John is way too good for me’ because he is. And you were dumb for ever thinking a guy like John could like you anyway.

Dave Strider, the boy who looks like a foot. That’s you.

And so it is that you lie there for almost an hour wallowing in misery and shame. You decide to pass on going online, to talk with him that afternoon.

…

 

You shower come evening and by nine o’clock you are in your bedroom on your computer playing mine craft, because you haven’t played that for a while and your brother is hogging the TV in the lounge. You are wearing one of his old hoodies, from the college he dropped out of a few years ago in order to persue his passion for porn and rock climbing instructors, and you hadn’t bothered to brush your hair or put on your shades. Why would you? You’re just going to look like a douchebag either way.

Your game is going really well, but all the same you cant help but feel dreadfully glum… not even the mug of tomato soup your bro brought you in (from a _packet_ even… he is really being considerate tonight) comforting you.

You swear loudly and almost spill soup all over your keyboard when the pesterchum notification sound startles you, and the window pops up onscreen in the middle of your godforsaken game. You had forgotten it was still running, albeit you had been logged in as invisible, but you know as soon as you see that its John messaging you that he has caught on to your ‘tricks’

 

EB: Dave i know you are there are you avoiding me?

EB: did i do something wrong?

EB: do you not like me anymore now that you’ve seen me?

EB: don’t pretend not to be online you dickshit i know you are there the messages are going through i can see them!

EB: Dave?

 

\----TG is now online---

\----TG began pestering EB at 21.03----

 

TG: yeah okay im online then

TG: and no you didn’t do anything wrong don’t worry

TG: its nothing.  
EB: don’t you want to show your picture to me?

TG: no, its not that its just

TG: im busy right now. Mining for diamonds and rocks and shit

TG: serious business, you know?

 

Your words sound a lot more calm than you feel. You set down your mug of soup next to a stack of CDs and a half drunk can of redbull, so you can type with both hands, and attempt to take deep breaths to regulate the way in which your entire body seems to be racing around a high speed drag circuit inside your skin.

 

EB: so you are either playing minecraft or picking your nose.

EB: why aren’t you talking to me?

TG: I told you man, its serious business. Things are getting intense.

TG: besides im talking to you now aren’t i?

EB: … i guess.

EB: ):

TG: whats up?

EB: i dunno… just things

EB: i mean if you didn’t want to put up a picture of yourself you could have just told me that’s all

EB: instead of making promises you dont keep

EB: I wouldn’t have minded.

 

Oh ouch. That was… kind of painful. You wince and hesitate to reply. What can you tell him? You don’t want to really tell him anything you just want to fall sideways off your chair and lie on your floor and sob stupidly. That is what it is you want to do. You seriously consider logging off and just leaving him. You cant handle this right now…

 

TG: no its not that!

TG: its just lately Ive been real busy… its not easy being as cool as I am.

EB: im sure

TG: seriously! Look, could you just give me a few more hours?

TG: another day sorry. its too late to do one now.

EB: well I guess so? but wait, actually Dave I have a better idea. you have pesterchum 7.0 don’t you?

TG: … I think so?

EB: okay. and you really don’t mind letting me see you?

TG: no.

 

Well that was a great big fat lie, but you couldn’t exactly say ‘actually allowing you to do so would be so embarrassing I would probably end up flying into the sun’ without sounding a _little_ bit lame.

 

EB: ok. Well hold on a sec im going to videocall you.

 

Wait what?

John calls you before you can even message him to say no, you sit there absolutely mortified, your face taking on the approximate colour of a tomato, your stomach plummeting between your legs straight through your pelvis and several apartments beneath yours to the basement far below. You don’t know what to do, you can’t hit accept and you can’t hit decline, and you end up panicking so badly you knock the mug of soup off your desk and onto the carpet. It is on your way to pick up the mug you slap the enter key on your keyboard answering the call.

When you sit back up and see the webcam loading icon on the centre of the screen, you find yourself frozen in place like a rodent in headlights; terror slipping coldly into your veins like the tomato soup is spreading across your carpet. Everything in your body has gone still and numb, you can’t hear anything but your heartbeat hammering in your ears. That goddamned buffering icon just keeps rolling, calm and lazy in the centre of your screen.

And then an image pops up and you feel like you might just faint under the weight of the million thoughts that crash around you at once. You forget how to breath and your hands begin shaking; the realisation that you are about to hear John’s voice, and see his expressions, and observe all those mannerisms that are undetectable over the internet in his speaking is enough to convince you that you have never felt less in control of your body in your life. You don’t want to open your mouth in case you stutter or burst into tears and you don’t want to move in case all your muscles loosen and you turn into a puddle of uncomposed, uncool, completely unironic goo. He tips his head to the side curiously, and it’s the first time you have ever seen him moving.

That’s John.

That’s John _your_ John, and he’s wearing a back to the future t-shirt and a gayass cardigan and his hair looks like he’s just been dragged through a bush and his eyes are so _blue_ you could die.

 “… Dave?”

“John.”

The two of you sit in stunned silence for a moment longer, just drinking each other in, and in the right hand corner of your screen you can see a little thumbnail of the webcam picture of you he is seeing. Your heart leaps because you aren’t wearing your shades and your eyes are as plainly weird as any eyes anywhere are ever going to be. Your hair is dishevelled. You have a fucking coldsore…

John’s lips part slowly, and you notice the wonderful lines of his cheekbones and his jaw, the faintest ghost of stubble on his chin…

“You look so… ”

Your toes curl in your socks and you hunch your shoulders to contain the absolutely uncool totally hysterical breakdown that threatens to overtake you. Breakdowns aren’t cool, Dave.

“S-So what?”

“… Like you.”

And then you can’t help it. It’s uncontrollable and humiliating but you can’t stop; a torn sob and Cheshire grin began to melt across your face like butter off a hot blade, and your stomach is tickling and you are shuffling in your chair resisting the urge to just break down and start crying. It’s terrible, but it’s superb; the relief and the embarrassment and the euphoria all sort of blend together and _John._ You are actually seeing John and that is just so wonderful. You try to bite back your smile and hold your discomfited tears but you can’t, and John when he sees your grin begins to smile too and it isn’t thin and curling like yours either it is wide and shows off his teeth, and it makes your entire body tingle all over.

“Oh my god Dave _wow_ I can’t believe it’s you.”

“I… can’t believe it’s you either.” You know you sound so lame, all semblances you had ever had to a ‘cool’ dude were gone out the window and right now you just came across as some thirteen year old school girl with wet eyes and red cheeks and a heart rate that could envy the flash during his finest stretch of sprinting. “Jesus fucking dicks man _look_ at you.” You rub the heal of your palm into your eyes and sniff stupidly.

“Listen to your accent!” John’s voice is tinny and wonderful, not deep but not high either, and his pronunciation is smooth and inoffensive to the ear. “Oh _wow_ you really have one don’t you!”

“Of course I do, dude. I’m from fucking Texas.”

This sets John laughing and it’s so glorious to see that your head starts spinning. You wonder, if you got any happier right now, if your chest might grow lighter and you may just start floating up and away into the sky.

“Can you say something really Texan for me? I want to hear you say something Texan.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! Something funny… say ‘howdy y’all’!”

“Oh my god…” this sets you off into waves of the sniggers, and they sound ridiculous through your pussy tears. “You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m not joking!” he leans closer to the computer, and you can see the way his collar bones pop over the neckline of his shirt, the way his muscles shift under his skin. “Say it! Come on Dave _please_?”

“Okay fine. ‘Howdy y’all’.”

You feel like a tool but all of that is absolved when John goes into hysterics again, and you join him completely unable to think of anything to say. This is so great. This is amazing… incredible! You haven’t felt this ecstatic for what feels like forever.

“Jesus dick John if I could reach you right now I’d fucking kiss you.”

“I bet you would! I’d probably end up kissing you back.”

You laugh some more, but not at each other so much as yourselves. At the situation, the feeling, the relief and the joy. This is happening, you _made_ this happen. The two of you.

“I just want to see you in real life now Dave, so I can hug you.”

You blush and try to discreetly rub your cheeks with a shaking hand.

“I’d love to see that blush in real life too.”

Holy shit he’s going to make you cry even more. You dissolve into shy giggles and he does too, and for one moment in your life there is a boy right in front of you who sees only what you are, only what you love, and only how you feel, and he doesn’t care that you aren’t cool or that you look like you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down; he sees you, and if you are good enough for him then you are good enough for you too. 


End file.
